Nobody's Hero
by MarienSully
Summary: John is trying to recover from the loss of his friend. Sherlock is trying to clean up Moriarty's mess while keeping John alive, without being seen. Something goes horribly wrong. Rated T for violence and swearing Not Johnlock. Friendship/drama. A link for the song that inspired this can be found on my profile.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by the song: **Nobody's Hero** by Bon Jovi - a link to a video can be found on my profile page.

This first chapter is fairly short.

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Suppressed tears made it hard to see the ground beneath his feet, but John held his head high as he walked away from his best friend's grave. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him by the car, ready to accompany him back to Baker street where he would walk her in and then leave again. He no longer lived at Baker Street and would not go into it again, not yet. It wasn't home without Sherlock and seeing the flat now, with all of the detective's things packed away, it was completely unwelcoming.

Mrs. Hudson took his arm as he reached the car. "Oh my dear boy. This is hard. But I do miss him so." She smiled sadly at the doctor as he helped her into the sedan that Mycroft had provided for the drive. "I miss you too. You should really come around more. How is work?"

Closing his eyes briefly, John got into the car beside her with exaggerated care, using the time to get himself under complete control before he spoke.

"Work is fine." And it was, actually. The clinic had given him some time off, not paid of course as Sherlock had not been family. But since he was well known as the companion of the "fraud detective who offed himself" the clinic had really wanted him gone for a time to let the furor around the event to die down before putting him in with patients again. Now that he was back they were all trying very hard to avoid the subject of Sherlock Holmes, for which John was grateful.

A small wrinkled hand touched his arm. He looked at Mrs. Hudson and gave her a small smile. She smiled back with a twinkle in her eye that warned him her next question would be about romance. "Do you have a girlfriend, dear?"

"No, I don't."

"That's too bad. You're a good catch you know. A doctor! I tried to tell Sherlock but he insisted you two were just friends." She sighed over lost hopes and looked out the window.

"We were just friends." John agreed, but then sighed. "Best friends." Mrs. Hudson patted his arm in sympathy. He looked out the window as the cemetery rolled past. _One more miracle, Sherlock. I was so alone before you. Don't make me go through that again._


	2. When You're On The Edge

Tall grave markers obscured Sherlock from cursory observation. If John had looked in his direction, though, he would have been spotted. Perhaps he had hoped to be discovered. He couldn't hear the doctor's words, but he could see the pain and it caused him just a twinge of guilt for being the cause of it. So easily fixed if Sherlock simply stepped forward. He had come to his own grave today to observe his friend, to see how he was getting on without the detective in his life. Sherlock had been "dead" only a short time, less than a month, and he could see that the doctor's limp had already begun to return. He wondered if it had taken this visit to trigger it or if it had started sometime prior. Has the tremor returned yet? Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time.

The most important observation that the detective made was that, although hurt by the loss of his friend, the former army doctor was coping well with his grief. He was still interacting with people he'd met through Sherlock, he'd kept his job at the clinic and he'd moved into a new flat outside of London. He couldn't afford a London flat on his own but Sherlock was certain a new flatmate was not an option for John.

Mrs. Hudson was looking well, too. Sherlock knew that Lestrade visited her regularly to check on her, so that concern was also taken care of. He wondered if Lestrade would move into 221B now that his divorce was final. That would please Mrs. Hudson since John wasn't going back. For a moment he wondered if he should somehow plant the idea with either the woman or the detective. He just as quickly dismissed the idea as too risky. They would figure it out eventually on their own.

Satisfied that his friends were dealing admirably with their grief, Sherlock turned away from the retreating figure of his former flatmate and briskly left the cemetery by another path. He had plans to make and strings to cut.

First and foremost, he had to see Mycroft. His git of a brother may have sold him out to Moriarty, but what he got in return was information about Moriarty's organization. Sherlock needed to know if there were still people watching, targeting, his friends. He needed to clear his own name if he ever wanted to go back to his former life and Work. And to do all that he needed details about Moriarty's plans.

...

Mycroft was not expecting to see his brother, alive, sitting on the chair opposite his desk when he entered his office that morning. However, he was pleased. The man's back was toward the door but he recognized Sherlock by the unruly mop of dark hair, the pale hand extending from the dark coat exposed on the armrest. It took him a moment to absorb the surprise.

"You've managed to fool a lot of people this time, haven't you?" He spoke conversationally as he walked around the chair to see his brother's face. "Mummy was most upset." He found it difficult to restrain the emotions that tore through him on seeing this man he had tormented all his life. This little brother that he had always found so vexing. The only person besides himself that he cared about.

Sherlock saw the twitch in Mycroft's hands that indicated his emotional state. Seeing that he might be considering giving his brother a hug, he sent the man an intense look that stopped the twitching and brought a mask of calm coldness to the distinguished face. The tall, elegant man sat at his desk. Steepling his hands at his chin, he leaned back.

"I'm sure she was." Sherlock replied coldly.

"I admit I wasn't aware that you had faked your suicide. Are you going to tell me the whole story?"

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Mycroft snorted, "Back to childish games are we?"

"Enough, Mycroft." Sherlock fairly spat the words across the desk. "I need everything you got from Moriarty. His game may not be finished and people are still in danger."

"Really Sherlock. Which people?"

Sherlock replied in a deadly voice, "The ones who matter."

"Tell me."

In living memory, Sherlock had never obeyed a direct order from his brother without argument. Mycroft was certain it would never happen again.


	3. You Can Bleed On Me

**Thank you for your patience with my updates. Something about this one is not coming out the way it was intended so I'm spending more time fixing it than I expected to. Again, you can find the link for the song on my profile page. Nobody's Hero by Bon Jovi. **

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"Damn!" John stepped away from the sterile field and held his hands out to his sides, still elevated above his elbows but completely contaminated now. Blood streamed steadily from his right hand where the scalpel had sliced through. Evaluating the quantity of blood he decided he had hit the superficial artery. He hoped he missed the tendons.. He handed the offending instrument to a non-sterile assistant as one of the theater nurses wrapped a towel around the injured extremity and applied pressure.

"Someone needs to call in Franklin to finish this operation." John looked at the scrub nurse working on his hand. "How bad?"

"It looks deep. A lot of blood. Mostly likely got into the patient, too."

"Damn!" John swore again, closing his eyes in frustration. He'd been working A&E for a few weeks without getting pulled into an operating theater. Today there hadn't been any choice. This patient had been critical when he'd first arrived. Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen, and some broken bones from an incident with an oncoming lorry. Dr. Watson would normally stabilize the patients and then ship them up to surgery. This time, somehow, all the other surgeons had been unavailable. He had been told to start the procedure until someone was available to take over.

Initially, John had been too involved in the act of saving a life to really pay attention to what he was doing. He had paused long enough to scrub, then plunged into the procedure without a second thought. Once the man was stable, all the bleeders ligated and the spleen removed, John had started to realize where he was.

He hadn't been in surgery since he'd been invalided home from Afghanistan. The tremor in his hand had prevented him from ever considering a career as a surgeon, it would be too risky for patients. When the tremor stopped, when his life had been so altered by his first day of interaction with one Sherlock Holmes that he could begin to consider surgery again, he had been too busy being an assistant to the consulting detective to bother.

After Sherlock, John had gone back to clinic work, however he was no longer cut out for dealing with people in such a calm atmosphere. Their little problems grated on his nerves. To be brutally honest, he'd been bored. Working at A&E had given him a way to stay involved in something that gave him that rush of being on the front lines again.

Not once had he considered going into the operating theater, though. Not so much because he was afraid his tremor would come back, but because he didn't like the idea of standing for extended hours working on tedious or repetitive operations. Now, he learned that he could handle the hours, this had not been a tedious operation. But as soon as he realized where he was and what he was doing, the tremor had returned.

"Dr. Watson, this needs to be cleaned." The nurse insisted, keeping pressure on the bleeding hand but pulling him insistently toward the door. John obediently accompanied the woman as he ran through the protocol in silently to himself.

His wound would be cleaned thoroughly and that would hurt like hell. The patient's abdomen would be flushed with sterile solutions as long as it wouldn't put him at risk for further injury or illness. They both would have blood tests run to check for any disease such as hepatitis or HIV. Then they'd both be put on a course of prophylactic medications for the next 6 months, just in case. John would be subjected to an inquiry where his tremor would be discovered. He'd be required to see a psychologist to treat that before he would be allowed near patients again.

John sighed. Seeing psych about his hand didn't help the last time. He could decline the psych treatment. Then he'd probably be shunted to an admin position, if he was allowed to keep working at the hospital at all. Or he'd have to go back to the clinic. There was a standing offer from them if he ever wanted to go back. He shuddered at the thought of doing that sort of mundane work again.

...

"Damn!" Sherlock cursed volumes as the surgeon applied stitches to the gash on his left forearm.

"You really should learn not to block knives with your bare arms." The snide tone from across the room gave Sherlock a direction, aside from the amazingly patient surgeon, to vent his frustration.

"Your idiot lackeys were late!"

Mycroft snorted in disgust. "They wouldn't have been, if you had informed them where you were going. As it was they barely found you in time to help at all." Watching as the surgeon applied the final stitches to what had been a rather deep wound, Mycroft considered his brother. "I gather that you found what you needed?"

Sighing in exasperation, Sherlock glared at no one in particular. "Of course."

"Good. Lestrade has been working on clearing your name. It's a slow process. He was an integral part of getting you access to crime scenes and information he was not cleared to give you. However, in a few months time, once you get this Moriarty mess cleaned up, you should be able to return to your old job." _And get out of my house_. Sharing a domicile with his brother was beginning to wear on everyone's nerves.

The surgeon finished applying the bandage to Sherlock's arm, told him how to care for it properly, then packed up his supplies and left. He was paid well to keep his silence about what went on under this roof, and experience with the elder Holmes had taught him when to make a quiet exit. The twenty-two stitches would be checked in 3 days to evaluate healing. Mycroft had insisted, in private, that the surgeon require them to be checked early, due to the particular stubbornness of one Sherlock Holmes when it came to rest and caring for personal injuries.

"Mycroft..." The detective's voice was vibrating with suppressed anger, which this time was not directed at his brother, but at the situation they were in, "There are still people watching John. They don't appear to be working together. They don't even appear to be aware of each other. I don't know how many, but with the strands unraveling from Moriarty's web, they may start to react soon."

"We have people watching John. And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. As you requested when this whole mess started."

"I'll be removing one of the watchers from the game tomorrow night. Your boys need to keep an eye out for the other." Sherlock stood and reached for his coat, wincing as the movement pulled skin against new stitches. "I'll have to follow John to catch this one."

"Don't let him see you."

"You must think I'm stupid, Mycroft."

Mycroft kept his silence until the door closed solidly behind his brother. "Sometimes I think you are one of the smartest men alive. And then I remember that you care."

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**Update: Thank you for your patience with me while I tweak the next chapter. There is a fight scene in there that is kicking my bum (pun intended) so it is taking longer than expected. Another day or so as real life is also preventing me from focusing on this story as much as I would like. **


	4. They're Waiting For Our Cuts to Bleed

**My thanks for your patience with this update. This chapter has been beta'd by the wonderful MrsNoggin.**

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His fingers twitched towards the phone that rested beside him on the arm of the sofa. He clasped them together in his lap, wincing as his left hand brushed the still raw stitches across the back of his right hand. He was unaccountably nervous about what he was planning to do. It was more than time to do it, but he wasn't sure how it would be received. He closed his eyes momentarily and considered whether he really wanted to.

Of course he did! He wouldn't be thinking about it if he didn't. Would he? He was not sure when he started to see her differently. The last time they had talked he'd noticed that her hair was longer, or maybe it was just that he hadn't paid attention to it before. Her eyes had seemed brighter, lips touched with a light shade of pink that complemented the flush on her cheeks. She had grown surprisingly lovely to him over the past few weeks and it was unsettling.

He found that when he wanted someone to talk to, she was the first person he thought of. He'd considered calling her after his accident in surgery but he had felt such a fool and didn't want her to think of him that way. The broken man who had to stop in the middle of a routine... well, not exactly routine... operation because his hand was trembling again. That wasn't how he wanted her to see him. So now, the very next day, he was dying to talk to her.

He had never been nervous about calling her before. But then he had never planned to ask her out for dinner before either. He wasn't certain if he was worried more that she might say no, or that she might say yes. His eyes flicked to his watch. He thought he should really call soon if he was going to at all.

...

On her way out of the mortuary after her shift, Molly paused to answer her ringing phone. She smiled when she saw the name on the display screen.

"Hello John."

...

The next evening found John walking Molly home after a nice dinner at a place just two streets over from her flat. It was later than John had expected it to be, but they had been talking so continuously that neither had noticed the time. He was glad he had asked her out. He wasn't sure he would do it again as a date, though. He noticed during the meal that they had spent more time talking about Sherlock than about themselves. This told the doctor that neither of them were past that part of their lives yet. John was still too sad. Molly was still deeply infatuated.

It concerned John, medically, that she was still so taken with a man who was no longer among the living. She sometimes talked about the detective as if he was still around, and it didn't look as if she noticed what she was doing.

So as he walked her home, John was trying to come up with a way to let her down gently. They approached a corner where a streetlight was out, making the pavement very dim, and a nervous Molly grabbed his hand. John looked down, startled, as the warm hand inside his own felt very comfortable. He suddenly changed his mind about going out with her again. He liked the way her delicate fingers felt inside his own.

Something tight in his chest began to unknot and he met her nervous gaze. She smiled tentatively at him. Then her eyes widened in alarm and she pulled hard on his hand, yanking him into her. He tried to turn to see what had frightened her, catching a glimpse of what looked suspiciously like a crowbar flying through the air as they stumbled together into a cluster of metal rubbish bins.

John wrestled himself out from among the bins, bruised in several places from the impact with the containers. He glanced over at Molly before facing their assailants, relieved to see that she was already climbing to her feet. The attacker recovered quickly from his missed swing and another man moved from the nearby alley to join him, a dull light reflecting off the knife in his hand. Unarmed and outnumbered, John knew he'd have a hard time of this fight, but he didn't have any choice at the moment.

The man with the crowbar launched himself at John, looking to tackle him to the ground. John stepped aside, ducked under the weapon, and tripped the man as he went by. Molly let out a squeal as she avoided being crashed into. Crowbar guy was making a lot of noise struggling in the toppled bins.

Knife guy decided to make a slice at John's belly while he'd been sidestepping Crowbar. John managed to twist out of the way but felt fabric rip as the blade caught his jacket. He spun himself away from the pair and turned to face them. Molly had fled down the street, he could hear that she was on her phone trying to get help. He hoped it would come soon.

The men attacked in concert then. John managed to land a few punches, tearing open his sutures in the process. Crowbar had a lovely bloody nose and Knife guy would had a very sore throat in the morning. At one point Crowbar lost his weapon but he proved to have experience with unarmed close combat. John didn't dodge quite fast enough and Knife managed to slice him across the scalp. Blood oozed into John's eyes, obscuring his vision and costing him dearly.

A blur of movement from the right was all the warning John had before a fist impacted his left temple. The world spun around him. He heard Molly cry out a warning and tried to dodge, but he couldn't see where the attack was coming from. Something hard slammed into his gut, and he doubled up in pain. A sharp blow met his nose, spreading an explosion of agony across his face. John's awareness of the world around him faded. Another blow to the side of his head knocked him to the ground. Too drained to defend himself anymore, he tensed for the feel of the knife knew was coming.

Nearly unconscious, John could hear Molly screaming and he was barely aware when a body crashed into Crowbar, throwing him against the nearby building. Knife guy was taken down with a few well-placed blows to the head and throat.

A blurry vision of pale features and dark hair appeared over John as he struggled to stay awake. He could hear Molly sobbing as she spoke to the blurry apparition.

The quiet, confident voice that responded to her sent a shock through John's body. That voice was gone forever, there was only one reason he would be hearing it again. "I'm dying." His own voice was hoarse with pain.

"No John. You're not dying. You don't get to die." The voice spoke reprovingly.

"Shhh! Don't talk to him!" Molly's voice hissed from somewhere above the apparition. The sound of sirens reached John's ears and the apparition moved out of his vision. John tried to protest the absence, reaching out after the retreating figure. Molly knelt at his side, applying pressure to his scalp laceration with both hands.

"It's all right John. It's over." Her voice was shaky and hoarse from crying. John tried to reach up to her but his arms felt like lead.

"You... okay?" he croaked harshly.

"I'm fine, just scared witless." He could feel the truth of that statement in the way her body trembled as she leaned over him.

"Who-" he started to ask 'Who was that?', but she interrupted.

"Nobody I know. But he saved your life." Then she muttered under her breath so quietly that John knew he wasn't supposed to hear it. "Again."

...

"You idiot!" Mycroft rarely gave in to fits of frustration but he was at his wits end with his brother this time. Pacing the office the elder Holmes glanced frequently at the sweat-streaked face across the room. Sherlock was once again sitting uncomfortably in an armchair while the well-paid surgeon stitched his arm back together, again. The fight with John's attackers had ripped out close to half of the sutures that had been placed just days before.

Hissing as the medical man tied off another stitch, Sherlock glanced briefly at his brother. "They were trying to kill him and make it look like a mugging. They never even went for Molly."

Mycroft halted his pacing to glare at Sherlock. "They're dead."

"Good."

"You weren't prepared for two."

"No."

The diplomat cocked his head before reaching for a folder on his desk. He flipped it open to glance at the pages inside. "According to this, your target hired a man for this attempt, in order to make sure the army doctor was overwhelmed."

"They nearly succeeded." The detective's voice was grim; he had hated watching that fight. He had hated the necessity of waiting until John was nearly unconscious. But because John needed to believe him dead, he'd had to wait until the man was in a state so disoriented that Sherlock's rescue could be ascribed to an unknown hero who simply resembled Sherlock.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock replayed the scene in his mind. John laying limply on the cold pavement, blood pouring from the gash in his scalp, from the reopened wound on his hand, from his shattered nose. He had heard Sherlock telling Molly to contact Mycroft and asked if he was dying. That comment had sent a cold shiver down the detective's spine, and in his weakness, in his concern for his friend, he had replied. That had not been his best moment.


End file.
